Breathe In
by GuyWithTheCatTattoos
Summary: Glaz is close to death when he is found by 3 strangers in France.


**This is from Glaz's p.o.v.**

 **Enjoy.**

I don't know how I'm alive. But I won't be much longer. I can feel my life slipping away from my body.

It feels like I've been lying on the ground forever. I've been on my back, how I fell from the gunfire. I haven't moved an inch, but I've looked weakly around at my surroundings from where I lie. The dirt and tall spring grass under me was warm from the sun in the cloudless blue sky. But the grass was splattered with blood from my dead comrades whose bodies surround me. My own blood has drenched the earth underneath and around me. Yet, the tree-less, grass-covered valley we were in was still very beautiful and serene. I've enjoyed the scenery I've gotten to see here in France.

I barely registered my pain anymore, though my breathing was very labored and became increasing difficult. The only thing I managed to muster up the energy for was to cry. I didn't want to die, but it was not me I was sad for; it was my fallen team… my friends. It made my throat tight, making my breaths even shorter. I coughed up blood when my sadness irritated my throat. Then I wheezed and coughed violently until my breath mostly steadied.

It felt like I was falling asleep almost. I was very aware of everything and my mind has been racing, albeit calmer than I'd ever expect it would be as I die. My life wasn't "flashing before me", but I had become sickeningly nostalgic. I thought of my earliest memories all the way through to today, before we had been riddled with bullets. I didn't feel regret, but I thought about all the forked roads I encountered in my life that lead me to this day, and I thought about where and who I'd be if I had taken other paths. I can't imagine being anything other than what I've become; a sniper with one of Russia's elite police forces for a living, and an artist behind it all. This is who I am.

There's an occasional warm breeze that sweeps away my thoughts. It's soothing. Death could be worse than this.

My eyes finally open again to look at the sky. It isn't much longer until a noise from a short distance to my right slightly catches my attention. I don't bother putting in the effort to look until I realize the sound is coming closer. When my head falls to the side, my dry, heavy eyes see 3 people coming over a small hill towards me. I don't know who it is for sure, but I have a good guess that it's the survivors of the enemy team returning for their 2 fallen brothers. I should be concerned, shouldn't I? But I feel nothing, even as they quickly approach. They can do me no further harm at this point.

Once they're in the immediate area, they walk past me. They're very blurry. They assume I'm dead. I remind myself I'm bathed in blood and not moving, not even moving my head to watch them, so of course I look dead. If they noticed they would just put a bullet in my head, anyway; if they're feeling gracious.

With my head still to the side, I close my eyes again. I just listen to them shuffling through the grass around me, talking amongst themselves. There are two men and a woman. They are speaking French, so I don't understand a word they're saying.

I've been trying to fall asleep. I want peace. I've been bleeding out for so long.

It takes me a moment to realize I'm being nudged at the shoulders. My eye lids feel so very heavy when my eyes open to see the man kneeled at my side with his hands on my shoulders. My vision is blurry, but I notice as I try to focus that he and the other two, who are standing right behind him looking down at me, are wearing civilian clothing. I'm confused. These are not the people who ambushed us and shot us down.

The man keeps his hands firm on my shoulders and he's been repeating something in French to me in a questioning tone. He's got very pale brown skin and dark hair. I can't make out any other physical details. He has a backpack on, but as I make note of this, he pulls it off and sets it to his side, continuing to speak what essentially is gibberish to me. I assume he's pulling out a gun, a knife, or a phone to notify the police.

As he rummages through his bag, the 3 exchange words with each other. The other man, who had pale skin and dark hair as well, stepped over me and squatted down at the other side of me. I slowly turned my head over to see him. My eyes are still struggling to focus, but I look over him. His hair is a little messy from the wind. I think his eyes are blue and he sounds younger than the man with the backpack.

I watch the blue-eyed man's mouth move as he tries to speak to me, but he stops when he realizes I won't, or can't, respond.

My attention turns back to the other man when I feel him pull my hands off of my bloody torso. I had covered some of my bullet wounds with my hands, trying in vain to keep the blood from pouring out of my gut. After he gently set my hands down at my sides, he said something to me and waited for a response. I stared up at him, my vision going in and out but never focusing. I didn't bother trying to speak. I wasn't even sure if I could. My breathing was loud, wheezy and gurgling from the blood and saliva in my throat that made me cough painfully every so often.

Finally, in the next sentence he uttered, there was a word I understood.

"…English?"

I still couldn't respond. My breath caught on the blood in my throat and I got into a coughing fit when I tried to.

"Non, non, eet's okay, don't speak," the man says as he holds onto my hand at my side. His hand is comfortingly warm. It scares me to realize how cold I am now.

He continues after I somewhat catch my breath, "Eef you understand English, can you squeeze my 'and?"

It surprised me when my body was able to respond to his request to give his hand a gentle squeeze. I didn't think I could even manage a task so small. I wasn't even sure if I had put in enough energy for him to feel my attempt until he responded.

"Good, ok!" he exclaims, "I weel 'ave to cut srough your upper clothes so zat I can see your wounds,"

I say nothing. I barely even register what he's saying. But I now realize it was medical supplies he had removed from his backpack. I noticed the scissors and rolls of bandages, among other things I couldn't recognize through my failing eyes.

Why is he getting out medical supplies?

Both he and the other man quickly removed all the small pieces of gear from my upper body before they opened my jacket and cut through the two layers of shirts I had on, revealing my bruised and still-bleeding body after a few minutes. I could feel the fresh blood pour down my sides, flowing freely. It made me feel sick and I closed my eyes tight.

The third mystery person, a brunette woman, now squatted down next to the medic and mumbled something in French. Her yellow-and-pink summer dress was bright and flowing with the breeze.

I was reminded of how painful my wounds were when the man started pressing cloth against my chest and stomach, trying to stifle the blood. A sound escape my throat, a sharp whimper, but it only made me go into another agonizing coughing fit. It sends pain throughout my entire body with each cough, all over again.

As my eyes were shut tight, I couldn't determine whose hand gently pressed onto the top of my head, their fingers gently petting into my overgrown brown hair. Soon my head, and I think my shoulders, were lifted to rest onto a warm, stiff pillow… no, perhaps it was someone's lap. As my head came to rest upon this raised surface, I heard quiet mutterings of French from the man who did not have the medical supplies; I assume he was the one trying to soothe me and had repositioned my head to keep me from choking on my blood. He kept his hand over my forehead like a mother checking her child for a fever. Strangely, it had something of a comforting effect to it, but could not cover the tremendous agony in my body.

The cloth being held on top of my body was being firmly pressed against my wounds. I attempted to push the hands away, but they were quickly and gently placed back down at my sides. I felt new, warm tears spill from the corner of my eyes.

I hear the woman speaking. I don't know what she's saying, but she sounds worried. I don't know why they're helping me. All it would take is a bullet or a well-placed stab of a blade. Just end it. If I could, I would ask them to kill me. I would not be too prideful to beg for it. I am tired of waiting for the misery to end.

I writhed weakly in pain as the mysterious medic bandaged me. He repeated apologies in English as he moved my body just enough that he could properly bandage me, with the woman's help. It seemed like forever and it felt miserable. I blacked out who-knows-how-many times since he hand began handling my injuries.

After a while, I felt a damp cloth wiping at my closed eyes. I hissed and flinched. The cloth was pulled away immediately after my reaction.

"Your eyes, zey are covered in blood…" I hear the younger man respond, who still has my head and shoulders carefully cradled in his lap, "Can you not feel it?"

I didn't realize that this whole time my eyes have been shut. Then, when I tried to open them, I realized the blood must have glued my eyes closed at some point. My immediate reaction was to try to wipe the dried blood from my eyes, but again, my hand was forcefully returned to my side, and the cloth began wiping my eyes again. I said nothing as he cleaned my face.

Once he was finished, I slowly opened my eyes. I could still feel the crusty blood in my skin all around my eyes, in my lashes, and the creases of my eyelids. My eyes stung and my vision was still as blurry as before. I couldn't focus on them no matter how hard I tried. But I could tell the three were still looking at me.

The sun seemed brighter after all this time, after I reopened my eyes. It makes it hard to keep my eyes open at all.

"Do you know your name?" I hear the older Frenchman, the medic, ask me.

My eyes are wincing under the bright light of the day. The sun seems so much brighter now, somehow.

After he asks again, I answer almost voicelessly, "Timur,"

"Good, Timur. Stay awake, ok? I know ze lights are bright…"

I barely acknowledge his words.

The man asks another question, "Do you know where you are?"

I grumble, not at his question, but at the overall awfulness I am feeling. I don't want to answer. Saying my name took a lot of breath from me.

He doesn't repeat himself, but says something in French to the others. His hand is in mine, gently squeezing as he keeps looking at me.

I want to ask why they're saving me, but I can't put forth anymore energy to speak. My brain can't even fully formulate the question.

"Eet's okay, Timur. You will be alright," The medic assures me every once in a while. Their voices are so distant. I keep my eyes closed again.

I begin to notice noises in the background. All of the sounds are odd and far away. I hear voices of all kinds, including the three who are treating me. I feel hands all over me but I've been unable to register whose hands they are anymore. There's still a hand in mine and a hand petting my hair gently. But I barely notice.

I think death is here now. All of the touches, the voices, and all other sensations are so dull and quiet that I don't acknowledge them now. My last thought is a pathetic and desperate shred of hope that there will be an afterlife of some kind where I can be with my comrades again.

O

O

O

When I open my eyes I feel in a daze. I feel simultaneously dull and in the same level of agony as before. My breathing is much more smooth and easy now. I can hear it clearly and I can feel my heart finally beating strongly at a normal pace.

I look around without moving my head, wondering if my hopes came to be that my friends would be waiting for me here. But it's an empty hospital room. If this is the afterlife I've been sent to, it's very uncreative.

I watch the door open and 3 figures walk in. Though my mind is still very hazy, I see more clearly now and I recognize them as the three French men and woman who tried to save me. Seeing them again makes everything suddenly feel extremely unsettling. They're not supposed to be here.

"You are finally awake!" The woman exclaims as the trio approach me in my warmed bed. Her smile is very warm, her eyebrows are shaped… she's very beautiful.

"'Ow do you feel?" I look over to the young Frenchman now, recognizing his caring voice and blue eyes. It isn't until I'm about to reply that I realize there's a mask over my mouth and nose, supplying my oxygen. I feel extremely unnerved now and react by tearing off the oxygen-mask immediately. Then I notice the IV in my arm and I tear it out with the same haste. I want to run away. I hear the beeping next to me become more rapid.

The three respond immediately. They all put their hands on me, both to keep me from leaving the bed and to relax me, as they all urgently spoke kind words to me to settle my nerves.

As I look at them, terrified, they look upon me with compassionate eyes. The brunette woman, who is holding on to my arm and shoulder, moves her hand up to the side of my face until her fingers are gently running through my hair. Her other hand stays on my arm where it's slightly bleeding where the IV was crudely removed. I look into her eyes and swallow hard as my heart pounds.

"Timur…" My head turns to the older man, the one who had patched me up before. He was on the other side of my bed with his hands gripping my shoulder and arm.

"You are safe. You are okay. Take deep breaths," He says, his voice firm yet kind.

"Where am I?!" I ask in shock. I don't know if I'm in a dream, if I am dead, or if I am still alive. I sincerely cannot discern which world I am currently in, and it is terrifying me.

The medic responds, "You are in a 'ospital in France, Timur. You were 'it by a car as you were walking and you survived,"

My eyes are locked onto his deep-brown eyes. It takes me a few minutes to consider believing what he has just told me. It is still so fresh in my memory that I was in a field, dying amongst my friends. I don't know how long it took before I looked under my blankets to check my bullet-wounds. But the reality finally sank in when I did, the reality that the Frenchman was right.

My chest and torso were bandaged all over, and everywhere I looked from my chest-down was mottled in bruises and scrapes. I had a leg in a cast propped onto a pillow. But nothing under the bandages were bullet holes. In fact, I could see one of my scars from a bullet I had been hit with during the war…

I quickly look over the eyes of the three who still gently have their hands upon me. I couldn't have escaped anyway, now that I'm aware of my broken leg, but I suppose I would have fallen off the bed had I tried in my state of fear.

Once reality settled in my adrenaline resided. As my heart slowly steadied, so did my thoughts.

"Please, don't touch me…" I finally muttered. I felt their hands reluctantly pull away.

I looked back at the older Frenchman, feeling much more exhausted than ever. Clearly the war I relived is long-past… Why am I in France?

"How I get hit by car?" I asked him, coughing afterwards. My throat was awfully sore.

"You were crossing ze street as a drunk driver 'it you," he answered.

He must have realized I still wasn't sure what was going on. He added, "I believe you were 'eaded to ze cemetery only a block down. You were carrying flowers,"

Once I heard the word 'cemetery', everything clicked. Maxim and Shurat were buried in France. I am in France to train with the GIGN for a month, an hour away from here, and I had not even been in the country for 3 days. I traveled to this city to visit the graves of my fallen brothers.

"Look," the woman caught my attention, pointing to a vase by the window that held a small bouquet of white roses, most of them damaged. I looked back at her, my eyes feeling a familiar burn of tears forming inside of them. She smiled and continued, "Julien picked zem up for you and brought zem 'ere after ze ambulance took you,"

As she mentioned his name, she looked at the younger, blue-eyed man.

She nodded over to the medic across from her and said, "Gustave was in ze ambulance with you. 'E ees a doctor. You are lucky 'e found you while we waited for ze emergency personnel, or you would 'ave died at ze scene,"

Gustave looked at her slightly offended, "Do not say sings like zat in front of a patient, Emmanuelle,"

I'm at a loss for words as I stare at the 3 of them in turns. My heart feels both broken and warmed.

Gustave picks up the oxygen-mask, "Timur, you will be okay, but you 'ave a long road of recovery. I am not ze doctor who treated you 'ere at ze 'ospital, but I am going to be visiting you, if you don't mind,"

I say nothing. My mind focuses on everything else.

"We'll visit as well," Julien adds, "I'm gonna go get you some water, alright?" Before I can answer, he's leaving the room, right after giving me a warm smile.

"We will need to get ze nurse to re-do 'is IV," the French woman says to the doctor. Even within my head I can't pronounce her name.

He nods, "We will visit you shortly. I am going to get ze nurse. Please relax and take care, Timur,"

Gustave and the beautiful brunette leave me with caring words and smiles.

Once I lie back down, readjusting under the covers as I still feel the dulled pain all over my body despite the painkillers, the only thing I can think is 'thank you'. I repeat it in my head over and over to the three, feeling the urge to both cry and smile like a fool, but I do neither. I hold it in and let my sleepiness overtake me. My last thought before I drift into my sleep is when they come to visit me, I promise to give them thanks.

'Thank you.'


End file.
